


turn me to gold in the sunlight

by druidiae



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know what this is either, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 11:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4434341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/druidiae/pseuds/druidiae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lesson in cohabitation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	turn me to gold in the sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> casually waxes poetic; some blood/vomit
> 
> drops this and runs

Lea’s lips are chapped.

You know this because whenever he comes over, he leaves a smear of strawberry lip balm on your pillow where he naps, a puddle of drool that he vows to clean but never does; sometimes there’s dried blood caked on the curve of his upper lip, where down meets up, and the lip balm does nothing except make him smell like a walking fruit. It’s not _bad_ , not really, but you do spend more time than strictly necessary wondering what it’d be like to taste it.

It’d probably taste pretty gross, but if it nets you a kiss, it could be worse.

His mouth is curved, sometimes pensive, and his teeth are jagged and snap rapidfire poison in the quickest of moments, and his lips can’t always keep up with the pervasiveness of his own wit. He’s a wildfire. You don’t want to extinguish him, but you tend to tame him in the hours of predawn.

Sometimes he doesn’t drool on your pillow. Sometimes he drools on you instead, head pillowed on the concave of your abdomen, and his mouth feels like sandpaper at six in the morning when it’s too early to be awake but you haven’t slept anyway.

Sometimes it rains. Sometimes it doesn’t.

Sometimes the sun is just too fucking bright and you hit him in the face with a pillow because he forgot to close the blinds again, and he laughs and laughs like broken glass until you relent and he licks a stripe up your neck. His tongue is weirdly soft—hot, like the rest of him, but smooth where it touches your skin, and he kisses his way past the hollow of your cage and reminds you how to swallow past the sharp edges of your own throat.

The first time he actually kisses you, he’s drunk and his mouth tastes like tequila and lime. You kiss him back anyway, and your clothes end up somewhere on the floor of your living room and the couch can barely keep from swallowing you both whole and his lungs breathe every word you manage to bleed between his teeth.

You whisper his name like a prayer and he fucking _screams_ yours until static fills your veins and all you see is red, red, red. He doesn’t taste like ash. He doesn’t burn you from the inside out, though sometimes you wish he would.

“ _Roxas_ ,” he breathes, over and over into the hollow of your neck, and your skin is cold where it doesn’t touch him. You both fall asleep to the sound of a late August storm in the distance, and when he wakes up before you, he cards skeleton fingers through your hair until you’re conscious enough to tell him to make some god damn coffee because it’s too early to know he’s still breathing.

He moves in. You don’t ask, and he doesn’t ask, but he moves in.

It was always a shared space anyway.

Some nights are awful. Thinking about his lips has you banging your head against the bathroom wall, and the ghost of his breath on your neck that doesn’t exist has you retching into the porcelain bowl until you see more red, darker and angrier than him, and your hands shake. Your head feels as though it’s going to explode, and your heart is beating so fast it’s almost as if it doesn’t exist at all.

Maybe it doesn’t. You’ve been here before.

Still, some nights are awful. They were awful before him, and they’re awful with him, but there’s a contrast now: where you once rested your head on the edge of the tub, waking up in the morning with a kink in the tightest muscle of your body, you now rest in a cotton-boxer lap of long legs and bony hips. He holds you until it passes, and then he holds you some more, and there is no bathtub in this scenario.

Instead there’s a bed with lots of soft, clean sheets and strawberry lip balm pillows and a tiny pill of ibuprofen that he coaxes down your throat with bitter water and he washes the taste of failure out of your mouth with his and all you taste—all you ever want to taste—is something like a sunset.

The sex is pretty good, too.

He’s careful, errs on the side of caution, until you pull his hair and bite his lip and then his hands are fire where they burn patterns into your hips; he leaves marks on your neck, chest, stomach, thighs. He goes down on you like you’re worth something and you return the favour and swallow him whole, watch him come undone and squirm under the pads of your fingers, and he fucks you until you’re less of a hollow ghost and more of a hallowed ground.

Sometimes he’ll whisper sweet nothings into your ear while your toes curl into his calves, the bedsheets, and sometimes he’ll grind you so hard into the bed you see galaxies in the pinpricks of your eyes. It’s fantastic.

You don’t tell him that.

(he gets it anyway.)

Here’s where the real problem is, though: you’re both some sort of fucking broken.

He’s manipulative, occasionally borderline possessive, and sometimes it’s incredibly hot but sometimes you have the inexplicable urge to shove a toothpick in his kidney. He laughs too loud when the sun is up, twisted smiles never reaching his eyes some days, and when he kisses you like that, you don’t taste strawberries at all. In the hours of night, when it’s the two of you and a blanket and nothing but the carpet for company, his teeth eat at his lip and blood drips under your tongue.

You’re just a shattered little thing with too much time and nowhere to go, and he tries to fix you but mostly ends up splintering your edges, leaving you a gaping mess of metaphorical innards and fairy dust. You can’t be fixed. It takes him a long time to accept that, and when he fucks you that night, he kisses every scar along your throat and the back of your knees and you cry when it’s over.

He holds you, soothes sweat-slick hair from your skin.

That’s probably the worst part.

There’s no real end. You’re both chasing rainbows in a city caught by twilight, and the toxins will eventually destroy you both, but you’re comfortable. He’s comfortable, especially sprawled out on the floor in front of the tv while you nap on his spine, and his vertebrae dig graves on your ribcage. He keeps you warm. You keep him sane.

His lips used to be chapped until you started stealing his lip balm and wearing it yourself, and after awhile, neither of you taste blood.

It’s nice.

You start buying strawberries again. 

**Author's Note:**

> [☼](http://skysugars.tumblr.com)


End file.
